


My Roommate is a Ghost

by ryukoishida



Series: Arslan Senki Fall Festival 2016 [2]
Category: Arslan Senki | Heroic Legend of Arslan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Ghosts, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Exorcists!AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-08
Updated: 2016-11-08
Packaged: 2018-08-29 21:53:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8506852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ryukoishida/pseuds/ryukoishida
Summary: Isfan can see dead people. Other than his day job as a veterinarian assistant, he exorcises spirits during the night. But when he moves to a new city due to an incident, he finds an annoying but attractive ghost, who claims to be from the Parthian era, haunting his bedroom. [Exorcist!AU]





	

**Author's Note:**

> I can’t believe I’m writing this.

“I think you’ll be a great addition to our agency,” Daryun shakes his hand firmly after they have both gotten out of the black Jeep. 

“Thank you,” Isfan replies, tone clipped and stiff. He’s not quite used to working with a team, since he’s always worked independently back where he comes from – at least for the time after Shapur was gone. There aren’t many of his kind in his hometown, and those who managed to get too close soon realized that strange and unexplainable incidents just kept happening around Isfan and those occurrences often resulted in either damaged properties or injured people – sometimes on the rare case, both. 

His last skirmish with a particularly uncooperative and violent spirit has landed him in serious trouble with the law enforcement. In the end, he wasn’t able to keep his day job as a veterinarian assistant, and without his actual source of income (because let’s face it, ghost-hunting is honestly one of the most underappreciated and underpaid jobs in the modern era, and Isfan can’t even begin to count the times he had to perform exorcisms for free), he’s forced to move to another city to start anew.

This was about the time when Narsus contacted him and offered him a position at their agency.

The streetlights glow bright and yellow over their heads, casting sharp reliefs along the row of cars parked on the side of the street. The gleaming surfaces of silent vehicles and black outlines of the few trees that stand close by are still and motionless, not a drop of summer breeze blowing past. 

It’s just past ten o’clock at night, but the neighborhood is eerily quiet. 

“Apologies for dragging you into this mess on your first day in the city as well,” Narsus sticks his head out from the passenger’s side and glances up with a small smile. The calculating look is subtle, concealed well by the casual amusement easily displayed on the surface, as if he’s still determining the new hunter’s worth and abilities even after the messy confrontation – a confrontation that has Isfan doing most of the work and one that he’s clearly won as the spirit has returned to where it belongs. 

“It’s not a problem at all, Narsus,” he gives the blond a curt, polite nod. 

Isfan isn’t about to trust him just yet. 

“So this is where you’re staying then?” Narsus looks at the building they’ve stopped in front of.

Similar to all the other structures in this part of town, the four-story apartment is on the run-down side, the paint chipping off from the window frames on the ground floor level and weathered bricks covered in old and new graffiti. 

It’s the only area that Isfan can afford right now with the amount of savings he has left. 

“Yeah,” he replies, and at the mention of his temporary residence, all the exhaustion from the exorcism session and the lack of sleep in recent days come crashing down upon him, and Isfan can’t wait to get into his new home.

-

At least the shower runs hot for more than twenty minutes, so Isfan supposes that despite the suspiciously cheap rent and the shady-looking hallways with broken or flickering lightbulbs, this apartment is not as bad as he has previously assumed. 

With the tips of his hair still dripping water down his back, skin flushed warm and pink from the heat of the shower and slightly moist from the steam, Isfan ruffles through a cardboard box and finally pulls out a clean t-shirt to put on.

The black ink on his tanned skin is prominent under the white luminescence of the lights overhead, which has been previously hidden by his jacket. Two identical trails of black tattoos in seemingly unintelligible scribbles and geometric designs unfurl delicately from his inner wrists and crawl up his forearms until the lines disappear beneath the sleeves of his shirt. 

His stomach growls in protest, but there’s nothing he can do until the morning since he hasn’t even had time to do grocery shopping yet. So he settles for some instant coffee he’s located in another cardboard box and brings the steaming mug into his bedroom.

Isfan almost drops his mug when he enters his room. 

Someone is sitting by the windows.

Isfan is certain that he doesn’t have a roommate; also, the man sitting there with his back towards him is not human.

The frail, watery light of the crescent moon that shines through the window brings out the ethereal nature of the creature – his outlines not quite solid but hazy and shimmering silver on the edges. 

Isfan has been a hunter for almost a decade now and nothing ever really surprise him anymore, so instead of retreating his steps or pulling out some kind of weapon, he merely puts his mug down and snaps on the lights.

The room is instantly flooded by a warm glow that washes the empty walls a soft orange.

"Who the hell are you and what are you doing in my bedroom?"

Slowly, carefully, as if he isn't quite certain that he’s the one being addressed, the spirit turns around. 

The ancient bronze wind chime by the closed windows tinkles for just a brief moment, the breadth of an exhale.

His eyes are the shade of fine sea glass, fragile yet incredibly sharp, and they are staring straight at Isfan's unfriendly glare. Nothing on his elfin features shifts when he realizes that yes, the man with the most curious and intriguing golden eyes and sleek brown hair that flows past his broad shoulders is indeed talking to him. His face shows no flicker of expressions, no signs of movements – just the calm reflection of a perfectly carved sculpture from the olden empires. 

The human doesn't look afraid – surprised, perhaps, and that's definitely blatant annoyance along his lips firmly pressed into quite an impressive scowl – but there's no fear or hesitation in his steady gaze.

He hops off the sill, fluid and elegant like a summer creek flowing over rocks, his feet making no sound at all on the creaking floorboard. 

The light fixture overhead makes his figure half-transparent: the violet of his scarf and tunic, the purplish-red of his hair, the pristine white of the bandages wrapped around his forearms, and the leather brown of his boots are wisps of coloured smoke that look like they can be blown away in an instant.

There's a sword strapped to the man's waist, and Isfan spots the curved top of a bow and feathered tips of arrows peeking out from behind. 

He's a skilled fighter, Isfan deduces right away, and his right hand reaches instinctively for his knife that he always keeps in his pocket, even when he’s at home. The silver blade of the weapon - a parting gift from his older brother before he passed away – has been engraved with a detailed diagram of an offensive spell. The damage won’t be too severe, but it’ll give Isfan just enough time to escape and call for back-up if needed. 

The nameless spirit takes another calculated step forward, eyes unchanging, and when Isfan still remains rooted to his spot, though his body has shifted into a defensive pose, the spirit’s lips curve into an impish grin.

“Interesting,” he purrs, and as the word leaves his mouth, an exhale of silver breath slithers out from between his parted lips.

“Who the fuck are you?” Isfan asks again, his gaze flickering between the ghost’s shimmering breath and his unblinking eyes. 

“There’s no need to be hostile,” he says, silky tone laced with playful jest that has Isfan’s grasp on his knife tightening until his knuckles turn white. “My name is Gieve, and it appears that you’re going to be my new roommate. It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“Who says anything about a roommate and making acquaintances?” Isfan spits out vehemently. He’s tired; he’s hungry; his patience is running ice-thin. All he wants to do is throw himself onto his very comfortable-looking bed and sleep for a good eight hours and then get breakfast at a close-by diner. 

“I see we’re already off to a great start, you and I.” The spirit who calls himself Gieve sends him another bright grin, and a lock of hair falls into his eyes as he tilts his head to the side. Isfan’s hostile remark doesn’t seem to have deterred him in the least. 

His hand relaxes around the knife’s handle. It doesn’t look like this Gieve has any ill-intentions towards him, but the spirit’s self-assured, cheerful expression is quickly starting to get on his nerves.

“I didn’t agree to either of those things, so you’re going to have to go haunt someone else, okay?” 

He’s not doing this. He can’t do this. He doesn’t have the time or the energy to deal with a goddamn ghost who refuses to leave what is now considered to be his home, even if said ghost’s eyes reminds him of the summer sea, and –– 

“I’m afraid I can’t do that,” Gieve replies with the same irritatingly cheerful tone, but there’s something roiling beneath those dazzling irises now. 

“Why is that?”

“I’ve been living – well, residing is probably a better word since it’s clear that I’m not, technically speaking, ‘alive’ – I’ve been residing here for…” Gieve pauses as his eyes flicker upwards in thought, his thin brows puckering in concentration, “…for however long it has been since the fall of the Parthian Empire.”

“P-Parthian Empire?” Isfan mutters in disbelief. If his historical knowledge from college serves him right, that would mean Gieve has been dead for over 1,500 years. 

“That’s right,” his eyes glint as if he’s caught Isfan’s shock and is secretly enjoying the reaction. “Although I’ve stopped keeping track of time after Shapur II’s reign, and I haven’t talked with someone like you for a long, long time.”

Isfan tries to ignore the mention of his dead brother’s name, which still brings about a hint of melancholy to his mouth; after all, it’s a relatively common one in their culture. 

“Someone like me?” The frown along his brows deepens. 

“Someone alive,” Gieve clarifies with a quiet, little smile, and he drifts a little closer, his steps mesmerizing like a dance. “Someone who can see and touch and speak with spectral beings such as myself.” 

They’re within touching distance, and Isfan can feel the spirit’s power flowing and churning the air around them in flares of heat. There’s not a doubt in the hunter’s mind anymore: Gieve is a formidable spirit, and as he is over a thousand years old, his immense spiritual energy is something that Isfan has never experienced or dealt with before. 

He stays frozen when Gieve’s pale hand reaches towards him, long, elegant fingers stretched out as if he’s about to touch his cheek, and he’s mere inches away when Isfan finally speaks in a low, barely controlled growl, his eyes flashing a dangerous gold, “Don’t.”

“Then don’t force me to do things I don’t want to do. You will find that it’s in your own best interest to compromise with me,” Gieve whispers back with the same smile, sharp and cold. “This has been my home for centuries, and I have no intention of leaving it simply because a human rudely orders me to do so.”

He takes a step back, and Isfan senses the air around him shifts once more. 

His exhale is a little shaky, even if he’s unwilling to admit so, and he closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. The headache is pounding behind his vision, and he’s simply too, too tired to argue over this right now. 

If this damn ghost can leave him alone, maybe this living arrangement can work itself out. 

Maybe. 

He just wants to crawl into his bed and sleep away this irritating dream.

“Alright, fine,” Isfan opens his eyes once more and crosses his arms over his chest with a sense of finality, “Gieve, right? If we are going to make this work, we’ll have to make some house rules so we don’t drive each other insane. The first rule is: please go to another part of the apartment while I’m sleeping in the bedroom. It’s creepy to have some Parthian-era ghost watching me when I’m trying to fall asleep––”

“You men from the 21st century are strangely punctilious about certain things, aren’t you?” Gieve chimes in with a chuckle.

“––which brings us to the second rule: bathroom is off-limits whenever I’m in there,” Isfan continues as if he’s never been interrupted.

“But that’s the only reason why I’d ever step foot in there,” Gieve protests with mock affront. 

Isfan feels the stain of heat gathering in his cheeks at the implication of the ghost’s statement, and he sends a wordless but fierce stare at Gieve’s direction, which makes him slaps a hand over his mouth. 

“Not good with jokes,” his comment is muffled, but the smile in there is still obvious, “duly noted.” 

“We’ll figure out the rest of this tomorrow when I’m actually awake,” Isfan yawns, covering his mouth, “now if you’ll please grant me some privacy…”

He makes a vague gesture towards the opened door with his arms, and Gieve just looks at him pointedly, blinks once as one corner of his lips tucks into a lopsided smirk, and walks out of the room straight through the wall. 

The trail of shimmer that surrounds him disappears completely when he’s gone.

Isfan closes the door, and drops onto his mattress with a sigh. 

“I have a roommate and he’s a ghost,” he mumbles against his sheets. 

Forget what he’s said about any of the redeeming qualities of this apartment; this is going to be more troublesome than what it’s worth.

**Author's Note:**

> I really enjoy writing this AU, so I’ll most likely do some more fics with it.


End file.
